Seeker of the Silk Road
by Tridentwatch
Summary: Harry is attacked by Voldemort's death eaters on Privet Drive. Dumbledore comes to save him and after an intense duel between the two master wizards, Dumbledore falls to his doom. Harry is saved but at what cost? Can the chosen one win the war?


Seeker of the Silk Road

Chapter One: The Man Who Follows

The world turned black suddenly, and the man in the street didn't know where he stood in the black inky darkness of the night. It happened almost like a storm, or like a crack of lightning, an instantaneous thing that occurred with subtle warnings, ignored warnings. Darkness flooded his heart, streaming through his ambitions and emotions like water but the water he felt in his heart was ice cold. The feeling of coldness and despair gripped him like a hand, clenching tighter and tighter, crushing his breath. He felt claustrophobic. Breathing hard, he knew he had to escape. Damn the boy! Let him die at the Dark Lord's hand, but not him, not Mundungus Fletcher, who had stood outside Harry's house over an hour after his shift ended because Mad Eye Moody had forgotten to show up again.

He started to run, first he had been walking at a slow thoughtful pace, letting his mind run on with no rope string attached to tether it to a particular subject, a leisurely walk through the street that simply exploded into a collosal nightmare. He raised his wand, but he felt rather than heard the spell come rushing behind him, striking his back.

He screamed in pain, the spell had dug deep and it wounded him terribly. He almost fell, stumbling, but caught himself just in time, knowing that if he fell he would be doomed to the fate the death eaters had in store for him. So he ran, with all his life pounding with every heart beat, knowing death approached just behind him and if he could only go harder, push his legs a little further, he just might outrun it. The hope was futile of course. Mundungus Fletcher was a dead man. He had been a dead man the moment he joined the Order of the Phoenix

(why? Fucking Dumbledore ruined my life!)

and now he felt the consequences catch up to him. Though unscrupulus and selfish, he cared little for pureblood idealogy due to his muggle born heritage. However now he reconsidered. Terror was close at hand, and sitting in Dumbledore's office drinking tea, talking about the possibility of being captured, was some how unreal, imaginary, a dream. Here it was in full flesh, being chased by death eaters on Privet drive. He tried to lead them away from Harry's house, but he knew that the death eaters would soon find it. They would enter the houses one by one, because now Harry had turned seventeen and the ward protections had fallen off.

He had to warn Dumbledore about the death eaters. How they had found out he would never know, but he assumed a traitor

(It's Snape, it has to be snape!)

had somehow infiltrated the order and passed critical information to his master, the nefarious Lord Voldemort. Mundungus raced, both body and mind, and tried to come up with a suitable solution to escape, or if not escape, at least warn Albus. He knew he would die one day, and the stabbing pain in his back reminded him sharply that day might be today, or tonight as the case may be. He had one advantage though, he was running under an invisibility cloak, so most of the spells the death eaters sent his way missed, but the cloak was torn and old, revealing some parts of his moving figure in the darkness. The oily orange light of the street lamps revealed his body, running from death, from death eaters, from the order even. If he got out of this alive, he would quit his extracurricular and illegal club for good. Or so he decided. In truth he wouldn't even have a chance to save himself.

With a crack, Lord Voldemort apparated in front of Fletcher, just three meters away. He was dressed in a black cloak, very simple, yet surprisingly elegant. His face was flushed red, and he was decidedly handsome in a terrifying way. Cold blue eyes pierced through his shabby cloak and with a wave of his hand the magic charmed cloth flew off Fletcher. The running man gasped and came to an abrupt stop knowing it was his end, knowing it was his doom. He collected his thoughts and decided to die in a meaningful way, so as to alert Albus. He raised his wand in the air, intending to call upon Fawkes  
(albus had told him a long time ago in a cloak and dagger meeting, basked in the shadows of a small corridor on the seventh floor of Hogwarts: if you ever need my asistance don't hesitate, just raise your wand and cry out Fawkes. My pheonix will lend you aid)  
but before he could his wand was snatched from him. He uttered a moan of pure defeat and despair and fell to his knees, begging mercy from the dark lord.

Voldemort watched with a sneer curling around his lips, and kicked the man in the chin. Fletcher flew backward, one of his teeth lose. He bled from his mouth but didn't stop in asking for mercy. Voldemort said out loud, slowly, haltingly, his speech measured and cultured through self study and endless experience of hypnotic persuasion: "Let not anyone say I am not merciful. I will grant you a boon today, mudblood. Stand."

Fletcher rose, shaking and sweating, his face pale white with fear. He said, "Please my lord, I beg of you, just let me live!" But he knew in his heart he would die that day so he desperately called in his mind Fawkes! Come to me! It was useless and futile, because he didn't have enough magic or skill to call a phoenix with his mind. He needed that wand, which Voldemort held with his thin elegant fingers. Voldemort took out a dagger from his robe and tossed it to Fletcher. It landed on his feet. The dagger was sheathed in brown leather, and it's black handle had runic marks drawn in chalk.

"Take the dagger and cut a slash through your forehead. I will spare you," said Voldemort menacingly, with fake sincerity he could immediately smell coming off him. So I'm going to die tonight, he thought, well might as well get it over with. He looked -almost glared but he didn't have the courage for that, when he was in Hogwarts he had been a hufflepuff and they were cowards- deep into Voldemort's eyes.

There was a tinge to the colour of his blue eyes, a sharp red circling the pupils that Fletcher immediately noticed. It sent icy chills through his heart, and made goosebumps on his skin. He trembled in fear, but slowly he bent and with great reluctance he touched the dagger. He pulled back suddenly as though he had been shocked, but nothing had happened. It seemed like a simple object. Voldemort chuckled, watching him with keen gigantic blue eyes that seemed to absorb Fletcher.

The scared man looked into Voldemort's eyes and felt a tingle rush through his brain as though it were being tickled. He saw thoughts and memories arise on the forefront of his mind-his childhood memories of playing on the swing, alone in the rain, when he had scraped his knee and his parents didn't help him because they were scared of him

(scared of the freak who can do magic just like the Dursleys are scared of harry...)

and wary, cautious, neglectful. 'If we leave him alone he won't hurt us' he saw his mother say on the kitchen table to his father in the middle of the night. 'Yes dear, just leave him be, its the best way. Tomorrow we'll run, go to America or Canada where he won't find us.' So he left the next morning, stayed in the park and waited for his parents to leave. He was supposed to be at summer school, learning proper grammar because his writing was atrocious and in those days Hogwarts made students go to one room village schools to learn good English.

But he skipped his class, and simply sat on the swings in the rain, waiting. Late in the night he returned to an empty house, almost barren. Most of the furniture was still there but the kitchen ware was gone, no dishes to eat with though there was cereal in the cupboards and a bit of milk still left in the fridge. It was a Friday. He hadn't felt like eating and just went back to his swings on Saturday morning, sitting there, waiting endlessly for it to all be a dream and to wake up.

He loathed his magic, and wished he never had it, wished he had his parents to coddle him, but he was alone and he stayed alone, learned how to survive on the streets his way. It came to him now, this childhood memory that he had repressed in the dark wild forest part of his mind and he wondered why. But Voldemort was staring at him, and thinking about his childhood when his life was in danger was extremely foolish.

He raised the dagger and took off the sheath, gasped when he saw the blade. It was white, made of bone. It glowed with a red light. With a sigh of fear, he felt a wetness in his pants but it felt comforting almost, as the stench of his urine filled his nose. He raised the dagger to his forehead and started to cut, the long cut seeping black and red poison into his body. He fell to the ground and started to shake, started to shiver with a madness he had never known before. "Is it working, my lord?" asked a death eater from behind him, as they all stared at him, watching as if they were watching a monster grow before their very eyes. The death eaters were behind him, in white masks, their blank eyes giving away nothing. But as he evolved into a form unknown from him before, but now very much known he felt as if he knew what made each one behind him tick. Their private lives, emotions, ambitions all streamed toward him as if they were almost giving it to him.

Mundungus Fletcher changed that day into a monster. He still looked the same but his whole face had taken on a viper look, a slanted shape of a snake or a shadow of a snake. Voldemort smiled ferally. Of all the ones around him, Fletcher sensed the least in Voldemort. It was as if the Dark Lord did not exist at all, but that was impossible. He could hear Voldemort's breathing, his heart beat, his footsteps as he moved closer and closer.

"Give me your left arm," he commanded, and Fletcher obeyed like a puppet on a string. He held out his arm, and waited, the seconds turning into almost a minute. He met Voldemort's red eyes without the least bit fear. A great peace had settled into him, and he could do no more to disobey the Dark Lord than he could stop breathing forever.

"Mosmorde!" Voldemort cried out. A flash of green light filled the dark street. Fletcher screamed and hissed in pain as his arm burnt, as smoke and the smell of sulfur filled his nostrils. Fletcher bowed, and said, "Your will I serve, Lord."

Voldemort smirked, his red eyes lighting up with a joy of a maniac or a psychotic, which he was undoubtedly one hundred percent of, according to the world around him. Fletcher knew more however. Suddenly, with the mark on his soul, like a stain, he could see into Voldemort with new eyes, into a land he was sure nobody save Tom Riddle had passed through. At first Tom had been disgusted at his dark side, but disgust turned into delight. Same for Fletcher, watching the land Voldemort's mind and heart inhabited changed his view of everything.

He was the servant of the dark lord now. Nothing else would be there, Fletcher was dead, and a death eater was born. "Please, my lord, tell me what I should do to please you," Fletcher said, sensing Voldemort wanted him for a task.

"Find me Harry Potter," Voldemort said, his voice a hypnotic ghostly rhythm that struck some chord in Fletcher, filling him with alternative feelings of lightness and heaviness. A sleep descended over him as he got up, a mental fogginess he could not pierce into save for a tight gripping of his mind as a headache seized him. He doubled over in pain and witnessed that he absolutely had to do the Dark Lord's bidding. Disobediance would not be tolerated. His body and soul would not tolerate refusing a direct command. Was it like this with all death eaters? He wondered. Somehow he knew it to be true.  
Fletcher moved. He moved with a power and grace he did not have previously, with a speed and a finesse that only Voldemort surpassed. What had the dagger done to him, he wondered, what had he sunk himself into. He found he could still think, but not clearly, not like he used to be able to think and create plans. He felt a sharp dip in his intelligence – and he had been very intelligent, one of the reasons he was a member of the Order of the Pheonix (The order had contacts that served the same purpose as Fletcher, but to enter the order as a member was almost impossible, high standards had to be met, which Fletcher surpassed easily despite his criminal background and his lack of a good education (although a Hogwarts education was considered the best in the world)) – so he could not visualize or talk as good as before, it mattered little to him now. His will was taken from him, along with his mind, to be shaped and formed as Lord Voldemort bid.

The Dark Lord gave him his wand back, almost daring Fletcher to try to attack him. Fletcher wanted to, but his body said no, his will was too weak to resist the dagger's curse.

Fletcher's soul was stained with the mark, and now he would be a servant both in this world and the hereafter. He did not feel remorse. He felt a joy, an unknown happiness he had never experienced. It vibrated in him like a tuning fork, shaking his world, filling him with immeasurable power. He was an experiment; Voldemort was creating a new man, someone who would obey and who would be tremendously powerful, at great cost of course. Voldemort had imparted to him a sliver, a tiny tiny slice of his own soul into Fletcher through the dagger. A very small nugget, not even a horcrux

(horcrux? What is that? What does that word mean? This small part of his mind that went free of the daggers influence rose up in him like a fish from beneath the sea)

but something smaller, and stranger, like a seed. He was a seed of Voldemort's, ready to sprout into full blown power and potency. In time though. Like good wine he would have to age to be ready to serve in his full capacity. He would have to get acquainted with his new found power, and then perhaps, just perhaps, Experiment Number One (that's what he called himself in his mind as he ran toward Number 4 Privet Drive) would be a success.

He hoped so, because he didn't want to die. Voldemort didn't tolerate failure and wouldn't hesitate to end his life. Fletcher's will was extinguished, his mind captured, but he still yearned for survival, for freedom, or at least a small fire inside him burned for it. A fire hidden underneath a boulder of power. The fire that had made him good enough for the Order of the Pheonix was still lit, like a candle, in the abyss of darkness that had claimed Fletcher's body.

Harry Potter stared out the window, his eyes puffy from lack of sleep and blood shot red. That's what he saw in his reflection: a tired teenager who had too much on his shoulders. His mind swirled with thoughts of Voldemort and Dumbledore, of what happened last year – the triwizard tournament and the duel with the dark lord.

He took hold of his wand, just to feel the magic inside him, to feel it had not been a horrible dream(and strange-as far as this went if it were a dream it could only have been called a strange one) knowing he would not awake from it because reality pulsed too strongly with every beat of his heart. Harry felt more awake than before, sweat beads lining his face as he focused on his magic – and there! It rose like a dragon, like a fierce rush of fire it uncoiled within him as if it were a snake and reared to strike. His wand chimed, a haunting tune like the bell of death that called ghosts back to the etherworld (he had been reading books on mythology throughout his summer because Hermione had brought him a set of books for his birthday) and he smiled. Harry's emerald green eyes sparkled with energy, his face flushed red with a health and a spring in his step, twinkle in his eye as he walked downstairs to the kitchen. He made himself a sandwich.

As he ate he watched the dark sky. Rain tapped against the roof, slowly at first but building up to a crescendo. He felt himself being pulled somewhere, as if his magic was taking him and urging him to leave

go where?

To go anywhere but here, because the air felt stifling, filled with danger, decay, and death. Magic had never called to him in such a way before, Harry thought, because he felt his entire insides fill with a burst of delightful phoenix song, a tune that made his heart leap with happiness. He ran out the door, with only his wand in his hand, raised it to the sky, and brought it down in a slash.

A green light flashed out his wand, hitting a man running toward his house. The man crumpled and then got up, grunting, groaning. Harry had left his glasses upstairs so he couldn't see the man's face. But he felt the man's evil intentions, as if his scar shot burning hot with pain whenever danger was near, and the man screamed of danger, of Voldemort.

"Accio firebolt," Harry said, and felt the broom come to him, speed up from his window, breaking through the glass with a shatter and swoop into his hand. Harry mounted. The man screamed, no! He raised his wand and shot, "Avada Kedavra."

A green light burst out of the man's wand. Harry dodged but felt the light hit his broom. The firebolt burst into flames, and Harry had to make a crash landing in the grass of his neighbors lawn.

"Who are you?" Harry yelled, his eyes searching for the man who had vanished into thin air. The man appeared beside him with a pop and punched Harry in the face. Harry fell, blood gushing out of his broken nose. He started to cry and sniffle a bit, god his nose hurt! It ached but there was nothing Harry could do as he scrambled to his feet, and shouted, "Stupefy!" Before running off into the darkness of the night.

The man followed. In the distance, Voldemort watched his creation, seeing immediately that Experiment Number One was a born again hunter.

A warrior, exactly what the dark lord needed. The price had been small, a piece of his soul that went beyond horcrux magic, into a realm he found abandoned and empty, with no companionship. No wizard had ever searched for what Voldemort searched with such passion, so he had no fellow travelers on his journey into the pit of abysmal darkness.  
Harry ran quickly, out of breath, his legs and stomach aching. He held his wand with a tight grip and turned around to briefly see an inhuman face with almost yellow eyes that glowed in the darkness. Yellow or red, somewhere in between, but definitely not orange. The colour was almost psychadelic, because it seemed to reach out to Harry with an invisible hand, grab a hold of him, and throw him in the darkest nightmares, the most terrible fears. The fear of the unknown blazed within Harry as he felt the monster – and that was the only name Harry could come up with for the deformed mutated being with sallow skin, yellow eyes and a face that bespoke of a serpantine darknss – chase him, hunt him down like prey.

But Harry would not go down easily. The man was no dark lord, no Voldemort. Harry felt his scar ache with a blunt pain, not a sharp sting but a blunt headache like ache that went through his skull and into his brain, making it hard to think clearly. He raised his wand, just as the man leapt in the air with a dagger. The dagger caught Harry's eye as he fired off a stunner. The red light hit the dagger and was absorbed into the metal – was it metal? It looked like bone to Harry, but he could tell it was as strong as any metal he could find - and the weapon glowed with a terrible green light that terrified Harry. It was the most evil looking thing he had ever seen.

Fletcher laughed, his chuckle as eerie as the bones of a skeleton in a graveyard, he looked like one too. A zombie light in his eye and a thinning receding figure. He moved and twisted in the air like a beast, not a human and came down on Harry with the dagger pointed toward the boy's neck. Harry fired off another stunner, this time hittting the target square in the chest as he moved back. Fletcher was thrown in the air like a rag doll and fell on the grass. Harry felt extremely tired. The stunner he had fired was a strong one, and it took a lot of stamina out of him. He turned, and ran, but his legs felt like lead. He wished he had his broom to escape. He heard footsteps behind him.

Fletcher gave chase, his body moving much faster than Harry could ever dream of, and he caught the boy with his hand clasped around the neck. It was a thin neck. Harry choked as he felt a cold hand squeeze. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on a spell. But he couldn't breathe, couldn't form any words. Suddenly he heard a bang and he opened his eyes to see Fletcher flung back again. What had happened? Had he cast a spell?

"Come here, Harry," said a familiar voice, a voice that had aged with grace, a voice that held kindness and safety, a secret warmth that made Harry feel comfortable and at home. Dumbledore stood in the darkness, but his very presence gave off a mysterious light, the light of grace and justice, of power and humanity. Harry ran behind him, and waited as the man in the darkness slowly stood to his feet, groaning.

"Mundungus, what happened?" said Dumbledore, curiously, yet his voice was tinged with iron, a hardness and fury that Harry had heard only a few times before, usually when it had to do with the dark wizards, like Voldemort and death eaters, and creatures like the dementors as well.

"I am Mundungus no more," said the man. He raised the dagger, pointing straight at Harry, and charged. Dumbledore moved with a blinding speed, casting spell after spell, but it seemed to have no effect on the man. Harry tried to cast a weak stunner. A pale red light shot out of his wand, and hit Fletcher just as he was about to thrust into Dumbledore. Fletcher was thrown back instantly, and did not rise.

Dumbledore gave Harry a look which the boy could not discern, a look that spoke of something hidden in Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes. "This is Voldemort's creation, but he has no hope of matching you with a proxy, Harry."

"What's that? Who is that?" Harry asked, looking uncomfortably at the man in the shadows. He could not see the man's face, but the yellow eyes glowed.

"He was an order member. Tom did something to him." Dumbledore said, his voice held a small measure of contempt and disgust. "I pity the dark lord, the inhumanness of his ways."

"Pity me?" said a cold voice, a voice that belonged to a tall man in a black robe. The man had a pale white face, with hardly any flesh. He was very bony. His red eyes -almost crimson like blood but there was a dimness to it, like a red coal that was about to be extinguished- was his most striking feature. They were cold, ruthless, and held no mercy. "I am not to be pitied, Albus, but to be feared."

"You are a dead man tonight, Tom," Albus said, "A walking dead man."

"You think you can defeat me?" Tom said incredulously as Harry backed away. He could not take his eyes off the two most powerful figures in the contemporary magical world. Power with their every word, every gesture, shone off them like a bright light, as if they were stars in the night sky and Harry was a moon, watching, being held in their gravitational fields, unable to go, but unable to stop watching either. One day the moon would become the star, one day Harry would be this powerful. But Harry was still a teenager, still a boy fighting a man's war, and as he watched, the two grand masters of magic bowed to each other, one humble, the other arrogant. "Well then, let's see what you can do, Albus!"

Dumbledore was dressed in white robes, plain white, not the rainbow colours he usually wore. The white was a symbol of innocence and purity, of the light which Dumbledore fought for, and Voldemort was encased in shadowy darkness, the chaos that threatened to engulf the light in abysmal blackness.  
They started their duel, it was like watching fireworks except each sliver of light, each bang and each word casted vibrated in Harry as if he were a giant bell, ringing with each of their blows. He did not know what was happening anymore, except that two figures with unimaginable power, skill, and knowledge fought.

"Alveius," Voldemort hissed, suddenly, as if he were a cobra that was about to strike unexpectedly. Dumbledore's eyes widened in surprise, and he took a step back, frozen. "Gellert's spell. I defeated him, Tom, just as I will to you."

"Feel the fire!" Voldemort said, his mouth curved in an ugly smirk, and a wave of blackness, of some sort of demonic energy, flew out of his wand, which hummed with an eerie ghost music, chimes and bells that had a tune to it, a tune of death and evil. Dumbledore waved his wand, forming a silver shield. The blackness touched the shield and shattered it like glass.

"HARRY! FIND THE SOURCE IN YOUR HEART!" Dumbledore cried, shouting with all his might as the black flame rushed at him.

Dumbledore watched in absolute horror – Harry could see it on his face – as the fire consumed the man who Harry had looked up to as a mentor all his life. It happened in an instant, the blackness of the fire that was somehow blacker than the clouded night sky ripped through the shield and destroyed the one man who stood between the Dark Lord and Harry Potter.

Dumbledore was dead. Ashes flew in Harry's eyes and mouth, sticking to his wet teary face.

Harry sobbed, knowing he was at the mercy of the Dark Lord, but he cried not in fear, rather in mourning, as the greatest of wizards passed away that night.

Cracks and pops of apparition formed behind him. "Harry take this!" shouted Tonks. Her hair was a light blue and she was wearing a faded ash grey robe with a silver phoenix on it. She handed him a sock, a red fluffy sock that Harry knew – or felt in his heart – it belonged to Dumbledore. He dissapeared as the portkey took hold of his navel, as order members arrived to battle the Dark Lord. On a dark desolate street, in the blackness of the night, Dumbledore perished, and the Dark Lord had triumphed.


End file.
